But then I read your blog and you don’t mention the letter so maybe you really didn’t get it and I was just ringing to check, I suppose. God, this is really embarrassing.’
‘You sent me a letter?’
‘Yeah, the day after we met. I know no one sends letters any more but I thought it was more, um, er’ (small cough) ‘romantic than a text message or a phone call.’
‘Oh. I don’t really open post that often because they’re always bills,’ I say, looking at the huge mountain of post on my floor.
‘Oh well, I sent you a letter, asking you round for Sunday lunch.’
‘When?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘But we can do it this Sunday if you’re free and if you fancy it?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ve been reading all the comments on your blog. It’s great, Sarah, you’re like a pioneer for women.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yeah. I am so glad that thing was in the paper, Sarah.’
‘Hmmm, me too.’
I hang up and face my post pile. I rummage through the envelopes until I find a handwritten white envelope. I open it carefully.
Dear Sarah Sargeant (actress extraordinaire)
It has come to my attention that our meeting last night was prematurely curtailed owing to a particularly knobby client of mine entering the establishment we were in. My apologies for this.
I have been racking my brains as to a suitable time and place for us to continue our discourse of inappropriate bollocks.
I was wondering whether you were free this Sunday about 3ish for some nourishment? It is with great regret that I have to inform you that the local Pizza Hut is fully booked at that hour. However, I was wondering whether you could bear to come to my house, eat my roast lamb with garlic and rosemary, drink some fine wine and regale me with tales of your shoes?
I enclose my telecommunication details and I await your response with anticipation.
Yours
Paul (the bloke who rescued you from the psychotic gnome: unshaven, pink shirt, grotty trainers)
I am just rereading it for the fourth time when Simon explodes into my room. I look up at him.
‘Blimey! Check your big grin! Have you been reading those comments on your blog thing?’
I shake my head and hand him the letter to read. He takes it and studies it carefully, a look of intense concentration on his face.
‘Don’t you think it’s nice?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, it’s really nice, Sare. He sounds very . . .’ he thinks for the right word for a few seconds, ‘you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I gush. ‘Oh my God, Simon, it’s weird that you should say that because he feels uncannily me.’
‘Hmmm.’ He nods seriously. ‘See, I told you you’d meet someone you liked if you looked. I’m popping out, Sare, see you in a bit, and read those comments, they’re really nice.’
I take my laptop from under the bed where it’s been hiding for days. I click on to my blog. I have had over two thousand hits since I last looked and I’ve got ninety-five new comments. I read them slowly. Three people offer me their faces to sit on. Someone from a magazine called Down and Dirty offers me a job. But everyone else sends kind messages. My favourite is the most recent one, from someone who calls themself No. 1 Fan.
Hello Spinster,
You sound really honest and special to me. Keep going with your quest and your blog. It’ll be all right, I promise.
fifteen
‘Ladies, I would like to propose a toast, as it is a year to the day since I had any action.’ I raise my glass of rosé.
‘A whole year!’ sighs Nikki. ‘No wonder you made some up!’
Nikki wouldn’t know anything about this. Nikki is beautiful and lovely and men have always swarmed to her like wasps around a pint of Stella in a summer beer garden. I met Nikki when I was four, at playgroup. Even then she was the girl that all the boys wanted to do the hokey-cokey with. The first time I played with her she was dressed as a bride because one of the four-year-old boys had asked
‘You sent me a letter?’
‘Yeah, the day after we met. I know no one sends letters any more but I thought it was more, um, er’ (small cough) ‘romantic than a text message or a phone call.’
‘Oh. I don’t really open post that often because they’re always bills,’ I say, looking at the huge mountain of post on my floor.
‘Oh well, I sent you a letter, asking you round for Sunday lunch.’
‘When?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘But we can do it this Sunday if you’re free and if you fancy it?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ve been reading all the comments on your blog. It’s great, Sarah, you’re like a pioneer for women.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yeah. I am so glad that thing was in the paper, Sarah.’
‘Hmmm, me too.’
I hang up and face my post pile. I rummage through the envelopes until I find a handwritten white envelope. I open it carefully.
Dear Sarah Sargeant (actress extraordinaire)
It has come to my attention that our meeting last night was prematurely curtailed owing to a particularly knobby client of mine entering the establishment we were in. My apologies for this.
I have been racking my brains as to a suitable time and place for us to continue our discourse of inappropriate bollocks.
I was wondering whether you were free this Sunday about 3ish for some nourishment? It is with great regret that I have to inform you that the local Pizza Hut is fully booked at that hour. However, I was wondering whether you could bear to come to my house, eat my roast lamb with garlic and rosemary, drink some fine wine and regale me with tales of your shoes?
I enclose my telecommunication details and I await your response with anticipation.
Yours
Paul (the bloke who rescued you from the psychotic gnome: unshaven, pink shirt, grotty trainers)
I am just rereading it for the fourth time when Simon explodes into my room. I look up at him.
‘Blimey! Check your big grin! Have you been reading those comments on your blog thing?’
I shake my head and hand him the letter to read. He takes it and studies it carefully, a look of intense concentration on his face.
‘Don’t you think it’s nice?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, it’s really nice, Sare. He sounds very . . .’ he thinks for the right word for a few seconds, ‘you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I gush. ‘Oh my God, Simon, it’s weird that you should say that because he feels uncannily me.’
‘Hmmm.’ He nods seriously. ‘See, I told you you’d meet someone you liked if you looked. I’m popping out, Sare, see you in a bit, and read those comments, they’re really nice.’
I take my laptop from under the bed where it’s been hiding for days. I click on to my blog. I have had over two thousand hits since I last looked and I’ve got ninety-five new comments. I read them slowly. Three people offer me their faces to sit on. Someone from a magazine called Down and Dirty offers me a job. But everyone else sends kind messages. My favourite is the most recent one, from someone who calls themself No. 1 Fan.
Hello Spinster,
You sound really honest and special to me. Keep going with your quest and your blog. It’ll be all right, I promise.
fifteen
‘Ladies, I would like to propose a toast, as it is a year to the day since I had any action.’ I raise my glass of rosé.
‘A whole year!’ sighs Nikki. ‘No wonder you made some up!’
Nikki wouldn’t know anything about this. Nikki is beautiful and lovely and men have always swarmed to her like wasps around a pint of Stella in a summer beer garden. I met Nikki when I was four, at playgroup. Even then she was the girl that all the boys wanted to do the hokey-cokey with. The first time I played with her she was dressed as a bride because one of the four-year-old boys had asked
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